


What Goes Up A Chimney Down, But Won't Go Down A Chimney Up?

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: When Is A Door Not A Door? [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Desire, incidental heterosexual context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riddle me this...</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Goes Up A Chimney Down, But Won't Go Down A Chimney Up?

**Author's Note:**

> Edward's riddles come from :  
> http://riddlesandanswers.treasurehuntriddles.org/Tags/candle  
> http://www.bat-mania.co.uk/guides/riddles.php  
> The solution to the riddle in the title is, of course, 'an umbrella'.  
> I am not associated with the production of Gotham, and this school is not associated with the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Happy fucking Valentine's Day.

There's a card on his breakfast table. There's no envelope; it's just propped up on itself, forming a perfect little triangle with the tabletop.  
“Curious,” he says, a smile unfurling. He circles around to the other side. Not so curious.  
“Oh.” His smile collapses into a little frown. It says 'Oswald's' on it. Well, that's no fun. Why go to the trouble of breaking into someone's apartment if you're not going to try to make them guess who did it?  
Edward picks it up. There's no point in being careful of fingerprints if he knows who left it. The paper is excellent quality, thick and semi-matte in finish. He rubs a corner gently between two fingers; it has a slightly pebbled texture. He sniffs it: oleic and starchy.  
“Sushi for lunch,” he clicks to himself.  
There's an undercurrent of men's cologne, too. Woody, but also herbal- and slightly noxious: the hollow cold of tobacco and the fizz of Bactine. Comforting- like a grandmother's handbag.  
Against his tongue, it softens only very slightly. The taste is delicately chemical.  
It's almost anticlimactic to read what it says inside. The handwriting is small, tidy; a hint of antiquity about the forms of the letters. It reads: “Looking for a friend? If you seek ami, you know where. Tonight, after work. Be there.”  
“Shouldn't it be 'an ami'?” Even if it's a foreign word, they're speaking English, so English rules of grammar apply. “'If you seek ami'...” he says. All of a sudden, realization hits him like a frigid shower. “Oh!” Laughter bubbles up from within him. “Oh!” he exclaims again. He feels himself color. “This is just...”

What this is is something he's never before known. He's had crushes, liked people, wanted to sleep with people. He has slept with people. This, however, is new. He's never been... courted, before. Usually, he has to do all of the work, and when it happens, it's with a wave of acquiescence from the other person, as though succumbing to something inevitable, but not entirely welcome. It's not that he likes it to happen this way, but when you don't have many opportunities, you take what you can get.  
Now, though. This is a mystery. The other night was- things like that don't happen to Edward. He understands, of course, that he was just a substitute. Any warm body would have done, he's sure. Or maybe not. If Oswald is pursuing him, now, he must have done something right.  
What did he do?  
After Oswald got him off, he was at a loss. The mechanics of sex are not beyond him, nor are the mechanics of romance. It's just a matter of putting the two together. The people who want to sleep with him are never the people he really likes. Does he like Oswald?  
As he's asking himself the question, Miss Kringle appears. Light and weighted, both, like a French pastry, gold and ivory, so delightful and so grave. He wants to laugh at the sight of her- not out of disrespect, not because he finds her ridiculous, but because. She's so sweet. Inside of him, something melts. Again. She's melting him and re-coagulating him again and again. Inside, he's a candle that's been burned and extinguished too many times. But he'll let her do it. As many times as it takes to let her need his light. And then, once she needs it, once she knows- ever after. Until there's nothing left of him to burn for her.  
“Young I am tall,” he whispers, then louder: “old I am short. I love to glow. Breath is my foe. Who am I?” Smiling, he looks toward her.  
Her smile in return is shallow. “I don't know, Edward.”  
The way she says his name isn't nice, but she's saying it, and that's nice.  
“I'm a candle!” he beams. It's fun when people try to guess, but it's also fun when they give up right away. Often, once he reveals the answer, that tickles them; they laugh with him, then. They don't have to feel bad about not knowing, because he's happy to tell them, and then, they both know the answer.  
But he knows something that Kristen doesn't know. Something good. That somebody likes him. Edward smiles, tart and self-satisfied.  
“Yeah, Edward. That was a good one.”  
She's not in the mood. Sometimes, she'll warm toward him, and those are the best times, but even when she's cold- it's a lovely cold.  
Involuntarily, he thinks of Oswald's cold hands. If he doesn't already have them he's going to develop circulation problems.  
“Cold hands, warm heart,” he says to himself. Oh, no! He's said it aloud.  
“What?”  
“Nothing. Miss Kringle. I was just thinking of someone else. Something else.”  
“Okay, Edward,” she says with a slightly deeper smile. And she's gone. And he's left to anticipate the next time she'll appear. It's good, actually, that he doesn't see her as much as he wants to. His brain doesn't have time to get bored: inevitably, he'll see her sometime, but there's no way of predicting when it'll be. Though, he has to admit that the weekends are hell.  
But is he going to Oswald's club?  
It's time to ask himself what he really wants.  
What- who he wants is Kristen. He wants her. Every day. At every station of his day, satisfying his need for her presence as regularly as his need for sustenance. He wants to eat breakfast with her every morning. Even if it's just a donut and coffee in the car. He wants to eat lunch with her, at a table in the cafeteria, legs touching under the table. He wants to eat dinner with her. At her home, at his, at a restaurant. He wants to take her nice places. To tell her things that will please her. He just wants to make her happy. If she told him that he could never touch her, he wouldn't. He's better with words and thoughts, anyway. There are a lot of ways to love a person. If she wanted only those things from him-  
Though, of course, if he had his way, there would be much more. He wants to kiss her mouth, feel her against him, her soft breasts straining against the armature of her bra. He wants to feel her, feel all of her. He'd do anything she wanted. Anything. As long as it made her happy. He wants her to tell him. If she told him, he would do it.  
As the saying goes, he's hot under the collar. He watched her walk away, her hips lushly round under her skirt. The way she moves- does she know she does that? He thinks of lifting her skirt, and running a hand up between her thighs, fluttering his fingers so she'd laugh, the middle one, the longest, reaching higher than the rest toward-  
Oh, dear. It's a good thing he's sitting down. He thinks of corpses, but that doesn't really help, because the last few they've had- the adrenal gland removals- were so interesting. It's not his fault. He breathes out roughly. He feels lit up, inside, like a curtainless window at night. Anyone could see in. He tries to think of something boring. Bore, 'B-O-R-E'. It's like 'B and E', 'breaking and entering'. Now, breaking or entering, what would that be? A burglar who steals a welcome mat from a porch, but doesn't cross the threshold?  
Now, he thinks again of Oswald. Oswald doesn't love him. He doesn't love Oswald. He finds Oswald fascinating, of course, because he's part of the demimonde, which has always interested Edward, as it does, all law-abiding citizens. That's why it's there. Oswald is dangerous, and rough. And mean. Edward frowns. But Oswald's mean like people were in school. Not really mean like an adult. It's okay. Edward isn't afraid to be called names or to be pushed around anymore. Oswald can be kind, too. His hands are soft, and his cologne smells good. His kisses are sweet. And he wants Edward, and-  
As he looks at Kristen's wake, Edward allows himself a little bit of excessive forlornness: No one else does.

Oswald was right. This isn't Edward's kind of place. There's a line, for one. Edward doesn't like standing in line. You can't talk to the people on line with you; it makes them angry, for some reason. He stands there, for at least half an hour, looking at his watch and the other people in line with him. They're all younger than he is. The realization hits him like something painful. When did he get to be this old? But he's not old, not at all! He thinks, then, of the Sphinx's riddle to Oedipus, and of the poem about it, too. “That's what you think,” he says softly. He likes it when something is a mystery, and a poem, and a joke, all in one.  
“My name is Edward Nygma,” he says to the doorman, “I think I might be on a list.”  
“Yep,” says the doorman flatly, “Go on in.”  
“Huh.”  
The place is... dark. He's used to darkness, but not darkness like this. It's fragrant, and plush, and the way it seems to push in on him all around makes him remember thinking about having his hand up Kristen's skirt. He directs himself to the bar.  
“Hello,” he says to the bartender, then shouts it: “Hello! I believe that I'm wanted by Oswald Cobblepot!” It's funny, because it has two meanings.  
“Who are you?”  
“Edward Nygma.”  
“Oh. Yeah. I'll get him. You want a drink, while you wait?”  
“Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker!” he chirps, then slightly more sedately: “I will have a seven and seven, please.”  
“Seven and seven, coming right up.”  
After the first one, he stops finding the taste quite so vile. It's syrupy in texture, gently sweet, with a spiced heat that rises through Edward's sinuses. Hmmm...  
He has time for two drinks before Oswald appears. He's wearing a different suit than the last time; this one is visually similar in texture to the notecard he left on Edward's table. If he licked the lapels, would Edward find them to be truly similar in texture to the card? The scent left on the card is coming off of him, rich and strange. He knows that Oswald's skin will smell of it, and he suddenly can't wait to compare the nuances of scent on material versus scent on skin.  
“Edward,” says Oswald.  
“Hello, Mr. Cobblepot.”  
“Call me Oswald.”  
“Hello, Oswald.”  
“How are you?”  
“I'm very well. And you?”  
“Never better. Would you accompany me to my office? We have a lot to discuss.”  
“Of course.” Edward swallows what remains of his drink, ice cubes and all, and follows Oswald. Through the club, they walk. And it's thrilling to Edward to be in all of the places where the public wouldn't ordinarily be allowed. It reminds him of when he was a kid, and snuck into the corridors behind the doors marked 'Private' in the mall. There was nothing actually back there, it was just a passageway for employees to enter their places of work without having to raise and lower the gates on the front doors, but the feeling was- It was so quiet, and there was no one there. He crept around, looking for- well, anything he could find. When he was young, he used to fantasize about happening upon a cadaver and remaining cool in order to call the authorities, and then, to gather clues- which would be admissible in court, even though he didn't have a warrant, because he was a civilian. Getting up on the stand, and giving perfect evidence, because he thought of everything, and he remembered everything, and he was never rattled.  
He's certainly not rattled, now. Nope. Not even a little bit. They're past the places where even employees tread, and Oswald takes his hand. Oswald's hand is soft, and cool, and slightly clammy. Kristen's hands would be softer, but dry. Like a linen handkerchief. Gently scented, but the scent wouldn't wear off all day, no matter how many files she handled.  
“Can I smell you?” Edward asks, seeking something wholly sensory to steady himself.  
“What?” Oswald turns on his heel, leans in dangerously toward him.  
“Can I smell you?”  
“Why?” Oswald's eyes narrow.  
“I want to.”  
“Fine,” Oswald huffs, stands still, and lets Edward come in close.  
He brushes the tip of his nose against Oswald's neck, tickled by the way Oswald trembles against his exhaled breath. “Just like the card.”  
“Because I left it,” he says exasperatedly.  
“I know. I just wanted- I just wanted to see if your cologne smelled differently on your skin.”  
“Well,” Oswald says, a nasty look on his face, “what do you think?”  
“It's expensive. You obviously like it a lot. If I were you, I'd be concerned about my thyroid function. You sweat a lot.”  
“I can't help that,” then, “Why are we talking about this?”  
“I don't know.”  
“Are you coming, or not?”  
“Yes,” Edward says, looking into Oswald's eyes. They're blue. Very pale. “Yes, of course.”  
Oswald yanks his wrist, pulls him forward.  
“You don't need to be so rough. I'm here because I want to be here.”  
Oswald turns again, and looks at him. With his pale blue eyes. “You do?”  
“Well, yes. Why did you think I was here?”  
Oswald says nothing, but continues to walk. Not pulling him, now, but with Edward. Edward makes himself walk more slowly. He shouldn't have been moving so fast. Oswald's legs are shorter, and he has that problem with his knee. A break, if Edward had to guess. Knees can be difficult. There's a lot in there- not just bone, but cartilage. So much can go wrong.  
Oswald slips a key into a lock, and then, they're inside of a room. It's dark- darker- and smells of cigarettes and paper and the cologne that Oswald is wearing. There's a desk, with a chair behind, a couch and a small table next to it.  
“You're here,” says Oswald.  
“Yes?”  
“You know why you're here, though? Right? I mean, you like riddles- I tried to make it, you know, fun for you. You understood it, right?”  
“Yes. I understood it perfectly.”  
“So, you know what I want.”  
“I know.”  
“The other night was-”  
“Yes,” Edward exhales.  
“No, it was bad. I mean, you tried, but it was bad.”  
“Oh.”  
“It's not your fault. I wasn't at my best, either. It's okay. We can only go forward.” Oswald smiles, crooked and weird. Edward likes it. It's like Kristen's glasses. Too much beauty is- too much. The human eye seeks out youth, robustness, as expressed in symmetry, but Edward has a theory that what the human eye truly wants to behold is asymmetry. Symmetry means safety, but asymmetry- the unusual or askew- means excitement. The human brain is a dopamine machine, and you get dopamine through two things: novelty and eustress. Put in a quarter, pray desperately for four aces.  
Oswald is weird. And clammy. And mean. But kissing him is sweet. Not sweet like kissing Kristen would be. It's sweetness with bitterness. His mouth is against Oswald's, again, gentle but thorough. It's a novelty to be wanted. When someone wants you, Edward finds, you can do things with them. He can press Oswald against the glass wall that shows the patrons outside- “They can't see us; don't worry,” gasps Oswald- all of him, stem to stern, and kiss him deeply, luxuriate in the feeling of Oswald's tongue in his mouth, alien and invasive but exhilarating. He can take off Oswald's jacket and his vest, lower his suspenders. And all Oswald says is 'Yes'.  
“Oh, yes,” gasps Oswald, when Edward undoes his tie, begins to unbutton his shirt. He wears so much clothing! It puts Edward in mind to unveiling a mummy, the layers of wrappings- which puts him in mind to something he saw on television when he was young, something about a robot that came in a sarcophagus, being unwrapped...  
“You're so soft,” he says to Oswald.  
“What?”  
“Your skin. Is very soft. Do you moisturize?”  
“What?”  
“Do you-”  
“You can't ask that.”  
Edward frowns. “Why not?”  
“You can't. It's personal.”  
“But aren't we going to have sex? Isn't that personal? We've already had sex. If there are things that you don't want me to know, I understand...”  
“No. I don't.”  
“Huh.”  
“You are so strange.”  
“I'm strange?” Edward laughs.  
“Yes. You're so fucking weird.”  
“I am?”  
“Yes!”  
And Oswald kisses him again. Up against the glass. No one can see. But imagine if they could. That's- oh, that's funny. It makes Edward feel sort of liquid, inside, ready to spill and stain. He kisses Oswald some more, unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way. Touches him all over his exposed skin. Would Kristen be this soft? Edward knows that she would. Softer, even. Like sinking right through her. And only gently perfumed. Not bathed in scent, like Oswald is. Edward can't get away from it. A delirious crush. He takes off Oswald's shirt, runs his hands everywhere he couldn't touch before, now that he's completely bare. Oswald arches up, into him.  
“Do you like that?”  
“Yes,” gasps Oswald.  
“You're very tactile. I mean, you're sensitive to touch.”  
“I know what you meant. Yes. I am. But I'd rather be kissed.”  
“Oh.”  
Kissing Oswald, he lets a hand slip experimentally down to the front of his pants. In response, Oswald arches against him again. He lets his hand slip down, to cup him fully, and Oswald- falls against him. Falls into him, fully, with relief and with need.  
“Please,” says Oswald.  
“This is what you want?”  
“Yes!” Oswald laughs, and again: “Why did you think I asked you here?”  
“But this is okay?”  
“Yes! Is this some kind of kink you have, because whatever you want, I'll say it. I'll say anything.” Oswald looks at him with those blue, blue eyes. “I'll do anything.”  
He presses his hand into Oswald's crotch. This gets him a long, stuttering moan. Just to see what will happen, he applies more force. This gets him a sound that comes from deeper down, and Oswald pushes against him.  
“Please...”  
“What do you want me to do?”  
“What do I want?”  
“Yes. I need- I need to be told. Otherwise, I just don't know.”  
Oswald looks at him. “I was hoping you'd know. I mean. I like it when the other person knows what they want. Then, I do it.”  
“Oh. On the couch. I guess. It's soft.”  
“Okay.”  
They move to the couch, and he places himself atop Oswald, feels him settle down into the space like a liquid. He's so warm. And his skin is so soft. And his hands are all over Edward.  
“I have to tell you,” Edward says, “You need to know. That I'm in love with someone else.”  
Oswald blinks. “I'm in love with someone else, too.”  
“I like you-”  
“Okay.”  
“I like you, but, I- I don't love you. I'm already in love.”  
“Okay.”  
“I needed you to know. I didn't want you to think-”  
“I didn't think that,” replies Oswald in a hard voice, and Edward knows he's said the wrong thing, but how can it be the wrong thing if it's the truth?  
“I like you.”  
“I'd hope so. You have your hand between my legs.”  
“Do I?”  
“Yes.”  
“I do like you. I just. I can't love you. I'm already in love.”  
“I understand. Please stop talking about this.”  
“Oh.”  
“When you're fucking someone, Edward,” Oswald says, low and mean, against Edward's ear, “you don't talk about the person you'd rather be fucking.”  
“Oh. Your skin is very soft.”  
“Thank you.”  
“I like how clear your eyes are. They're almost transparent.”  
“Thank you. I suppose.”  
“If someone's eyes are a color other than blue, it's because of the presence of fat in the iris. Yours are fat free. And I find your bone structure fascinating. Was your nose broken at any point, or is the structure congenital?”  
Oswald shakes his head. “Please stop.”  
“I'm sorry.”  
“Just stop.”  
He takes Edward's hands, and runs them down his hips. “Take off my pants,” he says, lifting up his hips.  
It's an instruction, and Edward is good with instructions. He has to take off Oswald's shoes first, which is interesting. When he palpates them, he finds that the bones in Oswald's feet and ankles are delicate, but slightly warped, due to his gait, and Edward lingers over them. Trying to imagine the action of his steps from this particular angle. Until he can tell, by the sound of Oswald's breath, that Oswald is getting bored. Without being asked, Edward takes off his underwear, too, which Oswald seems to enjoy. He's pale, so pale, all over, quivering under Edward's hands. It's never happened like this before. What does he do?  
“What do you want me to do?”  
“Just-” And Oswald pulls him down, so that they're pressed against each other. They fit together, perfectly, like puzzle pieces. Oswald is pushing up against him, on the material of his pants, and he can't-  
“Let me...” he says, and undoes his pants, pulls them down, lets Oswald rub himself against the bare skin of his thigh. Oswald seems to like this, because he holds onto Edward tightly, presses his fingernails into Edward's back. It's a different kind of feeling. Upon examination, Edward finds that it's actually sort of nice. Kristen wouldn't do this. Would she?  
He doesn't know. It comes to him, all at once. That he just doesn't know. Maybe it would be with Kristen like it is with Oswald; this weird, feverish friction. Oswald is kissing him, pulling him in deeper. And he wants this. It doesn't feel right- it doesn't feel like it should feel with someone you love- but it feels good. Oswald's little fingernails in his back, and Oswald's erection against his hip, and Oswald kissing him. He never stops kissing him. Is he thinking about Jim? Imagining someone broader and stronger? Oswald hasn't said, and it occurs to Edward that he's been unkind. He might not love Oswald, but Oswald's been so kind to him. He needs to be kind, in return. He changes his position, to Oswald's advantage, lets him feel as much of Edward as he wants to. There comes from Oswald a rich moan, and Edward finds that he likes that. He likes it when he's appreciated. All Oswald has done is appreciate him. He's been so unkind.  
He changes his position again, slips down on his elbows, between Oswald's legs. He wraps one hand around his dick, supports himself with the other, kisses it, kisses him, then takes him into his mouth. He hasn't done this very often, but he's found that even an unsuccessful attempt is successful, in its way.  
It is! He holds down Oswald's hips, so he doesn't choke, lets Oswald adjust to his rhythm, and then his rhythm become Oswald's. It's smooth, and gentle, two bodies moving together, and Edward finds that he can just keep going. He lets Oswald come in his mouth, and then spits into a glass Oswald pulls from the table.  
“Thank you,” says Edward, massaging his jaw, then, “Oh,” as Oswald kisses him, with unsettling depth.  
“Are you still thinking about your girlfriend?”  
“Well, it's a bit difficult to, as I assume she doesn't share the same anatomical features. Though, if she did, I wouldn't mind.”  
“You're so bad at this.”  
“I'm sorry.”  
“Never mind. Just tell me what to do, now,” Oswald says, in a breathy voice.  
“Oh. Well...”  
“Do you need warming up?”  
“What?”  
“Do you want me to kiss you some more?”  
“Yes. Yes. That would be nice. Thank you.”  
“Think nothing of it,” Oswald sneers, and pulls him down, kisses him with such intensity that it steals Edward's breath, and Edward begins to forget about Kristen a little bit. It's okay. He can think about her the rest of the time. But not here. It's not fair to her, or to Oswald.  
Oswald pulls off his jacket- which, it didn't even occur to him he was still wearing, loosens his tie. His lips are soft against Edward's neck, slightly swollen, his teeth, sharp. No one's ever actually bitten Edward before, and it's- Oddly compelling. A little shock runs through him, and he bends involuntarily into Oswald, lets that current run through him, shake his body like reanimated tissue. Oswald does it again, slightly lower, closer to his shoulder, and Edward almost makes a sound, but sucks it back in. The resulting sputter makes Oswald laugh, a wicked smile lighting up his features.  
“Come on,” he says gently, motioning him upward; with some effort, Edward gets to where Oswald wants him to be, his knees bracketing Oswald's ribcage. When Edward thinks about it, it's the perfect solution to the problem of Oswald's knees: he just has to lie there- well, there's a bit more to it than that. It's Edward, though, who has to do all of the real work, keep himself balanced when his attention is elsewhere. What he wants is to tumble forward, to let himself fall; he wonders how he's going to be able to stay up when he comes.  
In the moment, though, all concerns melt from him. When he does get off of Oswald, it's not gracefully, but he manages to avoid hurting either of them. Oswald is in no hurry to put his clothes back on. While Edward is tidying himself up, he stays recumbent, then slowly rises to a sitting position a hand against his lower back. After another moment, he stands, goes to his desk- and Edward tries not to look too interested in the motion of his walk, but he can't help it- and, of course, Oswald notices him looking. He's behind his desk, lighting a cigarette in a long holder, and he gives Edward a look even colder- if that's possible- than the one he did when they first met.  
“Don't do that,” he says, shaking his head warningly.  
“Don't do what?” Though, of course, Edward knows. His throat prickles. He hates being caught.  
“Don't stare at me.”  
“I wasn't-” Edward puts up his hands, “Not for the reason you think.”  
“Oh? And what reason-” he says it like it were a filthy word, one he doesn't want to dirty his tongue with- “is that?”  
“I wasn't staring because I find you amusing. I was staring because I find you interesting.”  
“Interesting?” He blows out smoke in a ring- and Edward's always found that so clever, wanted to know how it was done. He doesn't smoke, himself, so the personal applications are limited, but-  
“Yes. I'm sure it'll come as no surprise that I've never met anyone like you. I think you're very interesting- the way you dress, the way you talk. The way you walk. It was obviously a traumatic injury, the bones seem to have been re-set badly, but-”  
Oswald waves his hand. “Stop talking.”  
“Okay.”  
He says nothing, just hisses in smoke and hisses it out again. Edward should probably be concerned for his well-being, but orgasm releases a flood of chemicals into the bloodstream: dopamine; serotonin; vasopressin; oxytocin. They make him feel buoyant, and cozy; not afraid. Not when he can still taste Oswald, feel Oswald's mouth on him.  
Oswald takes his cigarette out of the holder and puts it out. “I believe you.”  
“Good. Because I'm telling the truth.”  
“If you find me so interesting,” Oswald's voice wet with ridicule around 'interesting', “then you'll come to see me again.”  
“Okay,” Edward brightens, “What is always on its way here but never arrives?”  
Oswald rolls his eyes, makes a disgusted sound. “I don't know.”  
“I am the toxin in your place of rest.”  
“What?”  
“It's a hint.” He giggles. He can't help himself.  
“Edward.”  
His smile broadens, because Oswald's said his name. Not in a nice way, but Oswald isn't a nice person. “The word 'toxin' derives from the ancient Greek word for 'arrow'. An arrow in a tomb. A tomb-arrow. Tomorrow. That's the solution to the riddle.”  
“You mean that.”  
“Yes. That's why I said it.”  
“If I find out that you're lying to me-”  
“I know. You'll kill me.”  
“And your little girlfriend. And everyone else you know.”  
Edward smiles. “But not Detective Gordon.”  
For a moment, Oswald looks very grave, and Edward's sure that he's pushed too far- but then, Oswald smiles, tics his finger back and forth in mock admonition. “You are very bad.”  
“By all accounts, you're far worse.” Edward feels his breath hitch, his heart beat faster. It's nice to have someone focused on him; completely focused on him, and only him.  
Oswald laughs, cheery and raucous. “You have no idea.” Then, he pulls Edward close, and kisses him.


End file.
